


Nightcall

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: teen wolf rare character bingo. [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deputy Jordan Parrish, Established Relationship, Human Jordan Parrish, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Jordan can count on one hand the number of times he’s worked a quiet night shift since moving to Beacon Hills.(Or, the one where on-duty phone sex isalmosta thing, but a collapsing shelf gets in the way.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 6 of Shipping With Stiles 2017, where the theme was How to Kiss a Boy (Stiles/male) and for the 'Jordan Parrish' square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character bingo card!
> 
> title borrowed from [the song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MV_3Dpw-BRY) by Kavinsky.

Jordan can count on one hand the number of times he’s worked a quiet night shift since moving to Beacon Hills.

Even in the dead of night, when the sky is black and the denizens of the town _should_ be enjoying a deep sleep, there’s usually something happening in town, some form of chaos that has Jordan out of the station and into the streets. Sometimes, the chaos is supernatural in nature, like the time where a witch had decided that three o'clock in the morning was a great time to come out of the woods and start casting love spells on the town. Sometimes, the chaos is entirely human in nature, brought on strong emotions and easy access to weaponry. 

(Jordan would rather take supernatural creatures over the latter any day.) 

But sometimes, while they’re few and far between, Beacon Hills actually has a quiet night. 

Those are the nights Jordan cherishes. 

He has three hours left in his shift and, unless something catastrophic occurs between now and then, he plans on spending all of that time at his desk, right where he’s been perched since he arrived. The phones have been almost entirely silent, aside from some routine issues that were easily dealt with by deputies out in the field, and the bullpen is dim, lit only by half a dozen desk lamps scattered across the room. At the moment, he's the only one in the bullpen, although there are a few others scattered around the station, working on the backlog in the evidence room, grabbing a late meal or cup of coffee in the staff room, maybe even catching a nap in a storage closet. 

He’s spent most of his time working on the mountain of paperwork sitting at the corner of his desk, only getting up to grab case files or another cup of coffee. He’s on his third, and the tower has shrunk down to more of a stack than anything, a stack that he might be able to complete by the time dawn (and the end of his shift) arrives. 

Just as he reaches for the next form on the stack, the phone on the corner of his desk rings, the sound so unexpected that he actually jumps slightly before he grabs it. 

“Beacon County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Parrish speaking.” 

“Holy shit, you’re _actually_ at your desk? I think this is a first.” 

“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Jordan says, relaxing back into his chair now that he knows he won’t have to grab a notepad to scribble something down or run out the door. “What are you still doing up?”

“Can’t sleep,” Stiles replies with a frustrated groan. “Brain won’t shut up. Keeps reminding me that I have an exam in six hours. Well, four hours now. Guess it doesn’t matter that I literally spent all day studying with Lydia.” 

“Guess not.” They’ve been through this enough times that Jordan knows there’s nothing he can suggest that will help; he’s pretty certain that Stiles has tried every possible remedy to silence his racing thoughts, aside from outright taking sleeping pills. Special teas, meditation, melatonin supplements; none of them have had any effect. 

Talking doesn’t work either, not in the conventional way; Stiles still won’t be able to fall asleep once Jordan gets off the phone with him. But, at the very least, it’ll distract him for awhile and, as Stiles says, that’s almost as good. 

“I should be able to talk for a bit,” Jordan says, pushing the paperwork away from him so that he isn’t distracted by it. “It’s been quiet here all night. I’m the only one in the bullpen right now.” 

“Where’s everyone else?” 

“Some of them are in the evidence room. Sleeping, maybe. Not that I blame them. I’d be sleeping too, if it weren’t for coffee.” 

“In some alternate universe, we’re both asleep right now, together. But in your bed. Not in this piece of shit.” 

“I offered to buy you a new one,” Jordan retorts. He’s only slept in Stiles’ bed a few times, when he was able to cash in some vacation days so that he could spend the weekend visiting him. On every occasion, he’d only be able to last one night on Stiles’ incredibly uncomfortable mattress, which was somehow simultaneously too soft and too firm; the rest of the weekend had been spent on an air mattress borrowed from Scott and jammed into the narrow space between Stiles’ bed frame and desk. 

“You’re _not_ buying me a new mattress,” Stiles replies, the eye roll obvious in his voice. “I’ll be home in two weeks, and I’ll figure something out by the end of the summer.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Jordan replies, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. 

(He’s still planning on getting Stiles a mattress at some point and having it delivered to his apartment; it’s just a matter of keeping it a secret.) 

“Seriously though, prepare yourself for when I come back. I’m going to make my dad give you at least a week off. Maybe two. We’ve got too much to catch up on.” 

“Do we?” Jordan teases. “You do realize I talk to you more than literally anyone else in the world. Except maybe your father.” 

“Bypassing the potential weirdness of that answer for a minute,” Stiles replies, “that wasn’t exactly what I meant by catch up.” 

“I _know_ what you meant,” Jordan says, laughing quietly. “You’re not wrong. I miss you.” It’s been a month since the last time they saw each other, since Stiles was able to come home for a quick weekend, and while they’ve been able to fit in a few Skype conversations since then, that’s a poor substitution for actually being together, for being able to feel Stiles’ long fingers travelling down his body and tugging at his hair, for being able to hear Stiles gasping and moaning and cursing underneath (or on top of) him. 

“I miss you too,” Stiles says. There’s a rustling from his end of his phone line, one that Jordan associates with Stiles collapsing back onto his bed and dropping the phone onto his pillow. For a few moments, aside from his soft breathing, he’s quiet, and Jordan can’t help but wonder if maybe their brief conversation has managed to quiet Stiles’ mind long enough for him to get some sleep.

When Stiles speaks again, that thought swiftly flies from Jordan's mind. 

“You know, in another alternate universe, I’m probably bent over your desk right now.” 

Jordan presses his mouth shut before any potentially embarrassing sounds can slip from it. Instinctively, he swivels in his chair so that he can take in the entirety of the bullpen, just to make sure that no one has come in while he’s been distracted. Thankfully, it’s still empty, so he spins back around, fingers tightening on the casing of his phone. 

“We really can’t talk about this right now,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. 

“What if _you_ don’t have to talk?” Stiles replies. His voice is lower, but there’s no mistaking the tone for exhaustion; this is the voice that puts shivers up Jordan's spine, that makes warmth flush his body. “I can do all the talking. You can just sit there, let me know that you’re listening every so often. Would that work?” 

Jordan could say no.

He knows that Stiles wouldn’t push the issue if he did; he’d probably just say goodnight and hang up so that he could jerk himself off. Parrish could go back to doing paperwork, drink some more stagnant coffee, go home after his shift and get himself off while imagining Stiles’ voice speaking in his ear. 

Or he could say yes. The ending would be the same, but the memories that would be playing his mind while he brought himself to the edge would be fresher, picture perfect into his mind. 

Before he can make a decision either way, a resounding crash comes from the direction of the evidence room. The phone clatters to Jordan's desk as he gets to his feet and yanks his service pistol from his hip holster, keeping the safety off for the time being but keeping his thumb near it. 

“Clarke?” he yells, waiting for some kind of misshapen shadow, something not quite human, to appear in the doorway leading to the evidence room. “You alright?” For a few long seconds, no response comes, and Jordan inches his thumb closer to the safety. 

Thankfully, before he has to flick it off, Clarke pokes her head around the corner. 

“One of our shelves just collapsed,” she says, sounding like she’s just barely resisting the urge to slam her fist into the wall. “Can I get your help for a few minutes?” 

“Yeah,” he answers, sliding his gun back into his holster with a grateful sigh. “I just have to finish something up. Be right there.” With a nod, she disappears back into the hallway, and Jordan drops back into his desk chair, grabbing the phone. 

“Stiles?” 

“Still here. Everything alright?” Stiles asks, the sentence split in half by a yawn.

“Yeah, it’s fine. One of the shelves in the evidence room collapsed. Clarke asked if I could help her with it.” 

“Those shelves have needed replacing for years,” Stiles laughs. “I’ll let you go clean up the mess. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?” 

“Let me know when you’re done your exam,” Jordan says. He glances over his shoulder again, just to ensure that the bullpen is still empty before he continues. “And Stiles?” 

“Yeah?” 

“When you come home,” Jordan continues, “if you still want it, I’d be happy to bend you over my desk. So long as it's the one in my apartment.”

“You promise?” Stiles murmurs. He sounds tired, but that low undercurrent of desire is still present in his voice, and Jordan barely bites back a groan. 

“Yeah,” he says, digging his fingers hard into his desk and resisting the urge to press his hand against the front of his pants. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
